Forge of Origins
by Nyruserra
Summary: Gilded. Aurulent. Opulent. Practically ludicrous, even; there were many, many words one could use to describe the Treasury of Erebor. Unfortunately, and utterly confoundingly, Bilbo could now add one more. Prison. A prompt fill for a courtship story with a bit of a twist; the Khebabel Azyungaz is nothing Bilbo was ever prepared to deal with...
1. 1 - All That Glitters

Many thanks to NephthysMoon, who once again saves me from making too many errors, and as always, pushes me to be a better writer 3

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**Forge of Origins:**

The Legacy of Our Fathers

**All That Glitters**

Gilded. Aurulent. Opulent. Practically ludicrous, even; there were many, many words one could use to describe the Treasury of Erebor. Bilbo had been both eager and nervous to see the newly restored once-lair of Smaug.

Quite frankly, though, this wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind.

"Thorin! What heaven's name do you think you're _doing_?"

Bilbo found himself scrambling over coins, his soles scrapping painfully as he slid down the treacherous footing on a handful of gemstones as he attempted to dance back out of reach. The dwarven king stood unmoving, arms crossed over his chest, holding his ground before the massive stone door and preventing Bilbo from simply darting out and leaving Thorin to this idiocy. His only concession to this ridiculous stand-off was ducking slightly as the hobbit, in a fit of frustration, scooped up a handful of coins and threw them at him. The small projectiles bounced harmlessly off his broad shoulders and arms with musical _pings_ as the gold and silver pieces struck his armour.

Bilbo couldn't explain what in the name of all the West was _going on_.

"Relax, _khufdûn_," the infuriating dwarf rumbled, but showed no other signs of explaining, beyond his earlier, and equally baffling, statement that the _Khebabel Azyungaz, _was now to begin. This got him a second handful of loose coin thrown at him. Unfortunately, Bilbo was forced to concede, it was no more effective than the first.

The Great Hall of Thráin, now the Treasury of Erebor, was located deep in the mountain, far below the Great Chamber of Thrór the Mountain King.

Even after all these months, Bilbo wasn't certain he'd ever be able to get over the sheer scale of the dwarven kingdom. Not to put too fine a point on it - and it would be very ill-mannered of him indeed to insult his companions by pointing this out, he was sure - but when it came right down to it, dwarves were... not all that much taller than hobbits. They were broad; and they had muscles that Bilbo was privately certain Yavanna had never given to her softer children. They were louder, and angrier, and just noisier in general, Bilbo supposed, but not in actuality, much _taller_.

_So why in the world did they feel the need to build such massive spaces?_

For centuries, Erebor had stood as a mighty testament of dwarven craft and majesty. Its hallowed halls a citadel hewn from the ancient flesh of the Lonely Mountain, and over the years their on-going war with the orcs of Mount Gundabad had caused the khazad to create defensive measures like no others in Middle Earth. Attacking the mountain itself would be a laughable venture, if your opponent were not a firedrake, of course. And it was deep in the roots of that mountain, in what was once the most protected heart of the kingdom, Thorin, son of Thráin now lost himself to Gold Fever once more. At least, Bilbo could think of no other explanation for such bizarre behavior as inviting a loyal companion and friend down to examine the recently finished restorations to the deepest chambers, and then proceed to give every indication of trying to lock them up in it!

Bilbo halted, panting, twenty feet still between him and the immeasurably high door that was thankfully, still sitting slightly open; a sliver of torchlight visible through the narrow crack this left. That narrow sliver was all that was keeping Bilbo's heart from beating right out of his chest. From this distance, he could still hear the deep, rumbling chant coming from beyond this room. Various voices had taken it up throughout its progression, and Bilbo was a bit affronted to find that he could recognise Bofur's higher register amongst them. That chanting had been the first indication that something was unusual was happening.

The chanting had built up to a crescendo, deep voices seeming to come from the very mountain, were now joined by a single voice raised above the others in a complimentary counterpart. _Bifur_, he thought. This new song was solemn sounding, in a minor key that seemed to burrow its way into the listeners' mind and settle on the skin as vibration, bypassing the ears as being completely unnecessary. Bilbo shivered, not liking the feeling of enchantment that permeated the air. He would have described the sensation as if something inside of him, without so much as a by-your-leave, was stretching; a sort of pleasure-pain tingling as a space seemed to be forming where previously only he had existed.

Altogether, he found it highly disagreeable.

Still, Thorin stood, impassive and _impassable_, seeming to take no heed of his kin's voices echoing behind him. Slowly, the voices trailed off, the sounds of their performance still hanging in the air for long moments, echoes held and cradled by the mountain stone as if reluctant to end. It was perhaps for this reason, Bilbo didn't immediately realize the change, so focused had he been on the vibrations' effect on his senses.

When he finally focused again, it seemed as if the entire world slowed in an instant. The flickering torchlight from behind the door was diminishing, the orange glow growing dim, and at first he thought the hallway torches beyond had burned down. With a sick feeling in his belly, he realised the torches were fine, and he watched helplessly as that narrow sliver of outside light got smaller, and then disappeared, and the sound of the door hitting the lintel boomed solidly; undeniable.

Time became real again, and he could hear the soft slither of metal rods, seeming terribly loud in the huge cavernous vault, finding their home in cold stone as clever mechanisms sealed the door. _What in the world is going on here?_

Gilded. Aurulent. Opulent. Practically ludicrous, even; there were many, many words one could use to describe the Treasury of Erebor. Unfortunately, and utterly confoundingly, Bilbo could now add one more.

Prison.

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**Author's Notes:**

The original prompt is from the LiveJournal kink_meme:

'Dwarvish Courting'

Dwarves have a very odd concept of courting their mates.  
Instead of wooing them with flowers and love letters they Kidnap them!, then hold them prisoner for six months in which they must either gain their mates love or release them and consign themselves to a life of solitude unless they themselves are captured by a suitor.

During this six months they must show their potential mate their wealth and ability to support them, they must demonstrate their skills to impress their mate and show that they are not fools, they must also lavish them with affection through gifts of sonnets, songs, jewelry, and food to show their mate just how much they will be cherished.

They may not however harm their mate in anyway, nor are they to make any sexual advances upon them during this six month courting period unless the Mate falls for them sooner than expected and agrees to wed them.

However if the mate is posing a threat to themselves, by starving themselves, attempting to escape, making themselves ill, then they can intervene and restrain and force the mate to take food and water to keep them healthy.

Once the mountain is reclaimed and Smaug is dead, Thorin does not fall into gold lust, he takes this chance to capture Bilbo and lock him up in the treasury and spend the next six months wooing and courting his Hobbit.

Massive Kudos if Bilbo is totally horrified and alarmed when Thorin captured him and locks him up in the treasury, yelling for help from the company who are simply cheering that their King is courting!.

Bilbo being totally uncooperative at first, shouting at and begging Thorin to release him, throwing gold coins at the Dwarf and shouting very un-Hobbit like obscenities!

Thorin hand feeding Bilbo cakes and whispering poetry to him

A wedding presided over by Balin follows six months later!

Obviously, I'm taking a few liberties with this prompt - such as making it far more serious and lengthy than it needed to be! But somehow, it was just begging to be written. Hopefully, people are enjoying reading as much as I have been enjoying writing it :)


	2. 2 - The Door Where We Began

**Chapter 2**

**The Door Where We Began**

The Eastern Balcony might not have the spectacular view of the western one, which favoured the least of the Desolation, and overlooked Raven Hill and the deep vale between the two westernmost spurs of the mountain. That balcony, with its polished floors of inlayed blue agate sheathed in crystal and bisected with silver runes, had been a favoured place for gatherings and entertainments of the court, once. It was a wonder that the West Balcony had escaped the worst of Smaug's wrath when in his wroth over Bilbo's theft of the cup, he destroyed half the mountainside and blocked up Durin's Door. It remained still as a beautiful remnant of the past, but being there brought up too many memories to suppress - memories of fire and death and of hunger and humiliation, for Thorin to take any leisure there now.

Instead, the eastern view was soothing, if a little unvaried, and suited his current mood. It would still be some weeks before spring came to this part of the world, though they all were optimistic that the lands of the Desolation would show signs of vitality once the snows finally melted. The evening air was still chill, and the stone benches scattered artfully amidst carven stone and sculpted metal were covered in fine sheets of crystalline frost. If the sun was still in the sky, he could have made out the grey-blue smudge on the horizon that would have been the foothills of the Iron Hills. Instead, the wan moonlight showed him only shadows cast on hard granite floor by the hewn railings, and nothing but a dark unrelenting mystery spreading out below.

The night air might be cool, but Thorin's dwarven blood hardly noticed it. It had been three months since what was now being recorded in Ori's book of_ Mazarbul_ as The Battle of Five Armies, and Thorin finally had everything he had set out to achieve so long ago. He had a home to give to his people. He had restored their pride and honour. He had a birthright to offer Fili and Kili, one rich with history and accomplishments. He was finally home.

Yet, he was unfulfilled. And it was all one rather unassuming hobbit's fault.

It was probably childish to blame Bilbo for his discontent, he knew, but let that go in favour of having the privilege to lose himself in a bit of a royal sulk while there was no one about to witness him doing so. Even as he entertained feelings of being Mahal's most favourite victim, he knew that this was all just a diversionary tactic to avoid thinking about the problem seriously, because frankly, it frightened him as precious little since the dragon had.

People without a home, those who had, at times, to rely on the charity of others, learned to make quick assessments. They learned to trust their instincts about others and to take in much and show little in return. His initial evaluation of Master Baggins had indeed shown him a soft, pampered gentle-hobbit, one who probably took many of his comforts for granted while Thorin had sold and debased his skill so that his sister would have enough food for the table, and his nephews, crown princes of Erebor, could wear new, if only serviceable, clothes. He was ashamed to admit that there may have been more of resentment than assessment in his comments to their burglar that first night.

And yet, despite that biting bitterness, Bilbo had shown surprising strength, and a refusal to wilt or cringe under its weight. His generous spirit and his insistence to see the dwarves home, people he had never met before the lot of them had trod mud into his heirloom carpets, challenged Thorin to re-assess the slightly podgy little creature, until, quite suddenly, he realized he didn't just not resent him anymore, he _respected_ him. He began seeing things in the hobbit that had been obscured before, noticing his solicitous nature to all his companions, his courage and his quick wit, both in planning, and in jest. He couldn't pinpoint when it happened, but by the time Smaug was defeated, he could no longer imagine his kingdom without the halfling at his side.

He could feel the gentle invasion of the changes Bilbo had wrought in him; could feel the way his thoughts and soul had begun the pleasure-painful stretch of making room for his hobbit inside his very essence. _ But it was too soon!_ No courtship had been given, nor accepted! When he had first realized his feelings, time had not been his ally. With the awesome threat of the dragon still hanging over them, no such arrangements could even be considered; the distraction would likely have proven fatal to them all. With the Chiefest Calamity dead, he could finally take the time to court his hobbit, to convince him that Thorin, son of Thráin was a worthy life-mate.

_If only I could figure out how to do it._

Thorin heard boots crunching in the delicate frost; they stopped respectfully behind him, just outside the arched doorway. He had been out here for hours now, time he should have been spending on those Mahal-cursed Reclamation Reports, so it really wasn't much of a surprise that it was Balin who eventually tracked him down.

"I suppose you're getting an early start on surveying your kingdom for tomorrow - Or shall we just go ahead and be honest, and call this a bit of brooding?"

Thorin didn't bother to answer that bit of disrespect with more than a grunt.

For a long moment, nothing more was said between them, though he could feel Balin eyeing him appraisingly. When he finally spoke, it was with a gentleness he had not heard since he was twenty-two years old, and his father's best advisor was coaxing an extremely uncertain young prince of the worth of his all-important first craft. Even then, Thorin had found Balin's calm to be soothing to something rough and uncertain inside of him.

"What's bothering you, lad?"

"Only you would be so soft as to call a dwarf in his one-hundred and ninety-fifth year a 'lad'," he snorted, sardonically. "I wish to be alone." He glanced over to his right, to see Balin give this grousing the attention it deserved; that is to say, none.

Briefly, Thorin considered_ ordering_ him away. _Probably wouldn't do him any good._ Balin knew he was far too skilled to simply banish, and calmly wielded this certainty as both axe and shield, when required.

"You've not been yourself this last fortnight or more - you've been surly, withdrawn and taciturn. Even more so than usual, I mean." Thorin glared out into the darkness, feeling a little sullen. _He wasn't that difficult, certainly?_

"The company is worried; Nori had to forcibly eject Kili from your wardrobe - he'd had hopes you might talk in your sleep. Oin is more direct; he's preparing a concoction of jasmine flowers and poppy milk to have you spilling your guts."

Startled, Thorin spluttered, "I trust Dwalin has taken steps?"

"Yes, my King," Balin answered, seriously. He clasped his hands behind his back, and wandered over to the railing, to look out into the unbroken darkness below. Thorin relaxed; glad he could count on Dwalin and Balin to put a stop to any such nonsense. He permitted a small smile to escape his control, when he caught the other dwarf peering at him from the corner of his eye.

"I believe," he said, with a smug ring in his voice that had warning bells going off in Thorin's head, "I believe that he has offered his services to Oin - to hold you down."

Scowling, Thorin huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. "I am surrounded by traitors. I need a new guard captain, obviously," he muttered mulishly.

"No, you don't. What you need is to let the dwarves who have followed you so loyally help you with whatever it is that has crawled up your royal behind, and be glad you have such good friends."

Asking for help had never been easy for dwarrow pride. As a king, from a disgraced line at that, it was near impossible to admit that kind of vulnerability to another, even a trusted advisor who had known you since before you had donned your first plaits.

He shoved himself off the railing, a dismissal on his tongue, and the intention to get back to work; to put this longing behind him, or at least shove it as far into a corner of his mind as he could and pretend it wasn't there.

On the other hand, mind, there were very few dwarves as canny as Balin, and if the aged advisor were able to help him win the hobbit, he would swallow mine-carts full of pride. Balin would see to it that he did, he was sure. The older dwarf had always been there to take him down a bit when he felt his prince's pride threatened to get to big.

For a moment, he held Balin's eyes, faded blue now, but clear and keen as they had been when he'd first taken rule of a kingdom in exile, and Thorin swallowed his command. Gradually, he let the energy bled from his body until his shoulders slumped, fractionally. _By the Valar, he was just so tired_.

Concerned, Balin reached out, grasping his left shoulder gently. "Is it the hobbit?"

Thorin wasn't surprised to have it confirmed that Balin knew, or at least suspected, the depth of his regard for their burglar. What _did_ surprise him though, was that he would actually speak of it. Dwarrow were a secretive lot by nature, and speaking of such a thing aloud by any but the most close of kith or kin was considered a terrible breach of privacy.

Making his decision, he turned his back on the yawning darkness below, and turned instead to face Balin, and his mountain kingdom. Shoulders set, he was surprised to find instead of the turmoil of the last six months, he was finally at peace. Bilbo cared for him; he had to trust in that. He had seen his regard grow during their journey, and had to believe that their moments of deeper connection were not just of Thorin's own making. With patience and Mahal's blessing, he would fan that regard into something greater. "I must make arrangements for the Confinement. I would forge the halfling to my side, if he will but have me."

Balin rocked back on his heels in surprise, though he took great care not to react more than that. He eyed his king carefully as he thought. For several long moments, his quiet breathing and the whisper of cloth and armor as Thorin tried to contain his restlessness were the only sounds to be heard. "Are you absolutely set on this, lad? You haven't exactly worn your heart on your sleeve where the hobbit is concerned."

Balin had the decency to blush at Thorin's incredulous stare. Truly, he had to privately concede, the king had made a bit of a spectacle of himself within the company with his constant protective awareness of their hobbit companion. "We-ll, not in a way a soft creature like Master Baggins is likely to have noticed, anyway," and here, Balin sighed. He hated to see the man he had come to love as his own son set himself up for failure; a failure that would forever cost him the ability to court anyone, ever again. Once given, a dwarrow heart could not be taken back.

"I admit he likely has no notion of my affection," Thorin acknowledged. "I do not know how other races court, let alone gentle-hobbits, but I have no choice left. He is in my very soul, and my heart can accept no other." Broad shoulders bowed under the weight of his thoughts, and he spoke softly, but held Balin's eyes as if in plea for understanding. "I have already felt the threads of my thoughts fraying. This has stretched on too long, and I don't know – I don't know for how much longer I can continue to make rational decisions. I am possessive of his time and person. I cannot think of anything else when he is from my sight." The admission was no less powerful for being made so softly, and for the first time, Balin felt real fear begin to stir in his heart as he realised he would not be able to talk his king from this path. "I may not be able to remain king much longer if I do not take steps to rectify this situation."

"He's never going to understand, Thorin! The surface races court differently than the children of Mahal- couldn't you just talk to him? Forgo the rituals, and just give the boy some flowers instead?" He spoke more from a desire to see him safe than any real conviction; forgoing the rituals, indeed!

"_Forgo_ the rituals? Even if I could, I would not. Do you not understand, Balin? These rituals are not for me, but for Bilbo; and for the people of Erebor." Thorin turned his back on his advisor, to gaze instead on the ruined city below. Balin wondered if he was seeing again the all-consuming dragon fire burning into the night sky, or instead looking to the future finally; or possibly just seeing the hard labour it would take to restore his ancestral home. The chill in the air, which was beginning to penetrate even dwarven hide, was clear and crisp, and he could plainly hear soft night noises in the stillness; little sounds of life returning to the mountain after ruin.

"I would have him by my side forever, if he would but allow it." Though his tone was melancholy, his shoulders remained set, his determined stance an almost exact replica of the one that swayed Balin two years ago, when a throne-less king had declared his intention to take back his mountain with nothing but a half-daft handful of misfits and his own burning pride. He had been convinced then that his king could accomplish anything, if he but reached forth his large hands to grasp it.

With one last look out over his city, Thorin turned back to him.

"How will my people respect their Royal Consort whom their king did not even deign was worth the effort of winning?" he asked softly, still not meeting the eyes of his advisor who tried to search for reason in his gaze. "For whom their king did not move the very mountain but to gain his favour? I would not have them in any doubt as to Master Baggins tremendous worth, and his right to rule them; in truth, to rule _me_."

Something in Balin's old heart shrunk at the shear impossibility of the situation, even as a desperate flame of hope was kindled in his belly. He owed him his loyalty, now more than ever. "Well, lad," he said finally, reaching out to clasp the taller dwarf's shoulder, "I'd say you're going to need a good healthy dose of cunning. Though in truth, the flowers probably wouldn't hurt, either."

Balin used his grip on his king to gently push him back through the balcony doors, and into the presence of his patiently waiting company.

And, with the help of his companions, Thorin began to _plan. _

-..-

Though the room they were in now was grand, and they were thirteen, and not fifteen, and certainly had no need to crowd around a too-little table, Thorin was sure he was not the only one reminded of another gathering, fourteen months ago or so, in a cosy smial far to the west.

And if they did crowd a little more than was necessary, not one of them would mention it. They had a racial reputation to protect, after all.

He wasn't exactly sure what this room had been used for originally – he had vague memories of this wing being rather uninteresting as a lad, though he thought Balin could oft times be found down this way, so it was probably the part of the kingdom where things were actually accomplished, instead of just talked about, which ruled out council chamber rather neatly. Some of the torches still amazingly held oil after all this time, and when Bombur lit them, a merry glow suffused the room, but still managed to hide the dust from sight. It was the first time in weeks that they had all been gathered together at once like this, though he saw them all singularly or in small groups as they all pushed to assess what was left of their kingdom. Thorin felt himself relax, a tiny bit of wariness he hadn't even been aware he _could_ let go of leaving him in the company of dwarrow he trusted so unreservedly. In that moment, he felt rich indeed, and even Dori's fussing was welcoming instead of tiresome.

"I think he's not so indifferent – I mean, he's always making meals for you, going on about it being some great Auntie's recipe, or cousin's or whatever. Food is obviously important to him, it stands to reason he might try and win your attention by feeding you." Bofur had stood, one furred boot planted firmly on the seat of his chair as he surveyed the table hopefully, looking for support.

Thorin cocked his head minutely as he considered this, and tried to quash any hopeful fluttering in his belly. _Did Bilbo perhaps seek his favour through cookery?_ It seemed far-fetched, but he was a hobbit after all –

Dwalin's rough growl cut through these musings. "The hobbit cooks for all of us. He helps Bombur in the buttery, and the kitchens. Besides, who would court through food?" He stretched out to give the leg of Bofur's chair a heavy nudge with his boot, causing the whole chair to wobble and Bofur to almost lose his perch, points of his ridiculous hat flapping along with his arms as he regained his balance with a squawk.

"But he always gives Thorin the best portions!" Bofur spluttered, two hands holding the brim of his hat protectively as he glared at his attacker, clearly equally convinced of the hobbit's betraying regard and Dwalin's general untrustworthiness.

Dwalin snorted, inelegantly, and made a rude gesture. "That's because he's the king, idiot!" Kili joined in the spirited bickering that followed, and Thorin groaned, reaching up to rub his face in one large hand when Bifur was dragged into the ruckus with a completely irrelevant speculation of a personal nature about Master Baggins – and his anatomy. It was not an image Thorin needed to focus on.

Not until he was in a position to find out for himself, anyway.

"Donna worry so, laddie," Balin spoke over the noisy rumblings of his younger brother and the rest with ease of long practice. "Mayhap Master Baggins does show his regard as Bofur suggests, more likely it's just that he likes being useful and seeks to help out where he may, but I have no doubt that regard for you he _does_ have—"

"I thought you were against this?" Thorin asked, amused at his one-time tutor's apparent flip on the subject. The pre-supposition of the hobbit's regard he carefully ignored as a kindness.

Balin merely gave him a look, as though he were being obtuse. "That was before," he said loftily. "I know it's a struggle, but do try to keep up, your Majesty."

"I should have you replaced with a clockwork mechanism," he grunted sourly.

"No fear of that," the aged advisor retorted easily. "But at least with Master Baggins at your side, I might finally be able to retire." Thorin scowled when he heard Fili coughing. It was a distinctly snigger-sounding cough, after all.

Dwalin reached across Gloin to swat the young prince with one meaty palm. "Mind your manners, you," he rumbled absently, not looking away from the conversation going on around him. The redhead didn't even skip a beat in the heated discussion that seemed to have grown to include not just Bombur, Dwalin and Oin, but now Bifur, Kili, and Dori. Thorin resigned himself to the fact that his courting success - or even lack thereof, was likely to make at least one of his company moderately richer. Not that any of the filthy sods needed it.

Nori, who had remained uninvolved and watchful during the general ruckus, cleared his throat quietly. It was a mark as to how much each dwarf there respected his abilities that he gained their instant and complete attention. "Now, I'm not a nobby- nob, and the 'Ri family is not usually so high in the step that we would instigate a formal _Khebabel Azyungaz,_" he paused here to smirk at his older brother, who had crossed his arms over his broad chest and silently fumed at this assessment. "We'd just make do with a room in our family home, and be done with it. But it seems to me that our King is right – our burglar deserves to be made a big deal of in front of all the old council members and other nobs, who are going to have things to say about some top-lofty little baggage from the Shire thinking he can get his pudgy little hands on a Dwarrow King."

Thorin's hands clenched white-knuckled around his tankard, and Nori was personally convinced he could actually hear his teeth grinding from where he sat. "Not twice, they won't," he gritted out.

"Ah, right then," the thief hedged, suddenly a bit nervous as what had started as a way to tweak his brother's braids provoked such a heated response. "We're going to need to find the proper place to set this up – something sufficiently grand, to set the right impression."

Ori spoken up hesitantly, "I do not think Master Baggins cares much for grand, brother."

"Not for him; for the oldsters – the ones who are going to want to come back here and have things all their own way again." The rarely used patience in Nori's tone was only ever directed at his youngest sibling. "We have to show them that Master Baggins is off limits to their scheming."

Ori waved one tightly clenched fist, looking positively as fierce as one could look, while still wearing that much knitwear. "They'd better not try. He's _our_ burglar." Instead of getting a scolding from Dori, there was a rumble of protective agreement from around the table. From under his heavy brows, Dwalin looked at the younger dwarf with startled approval.

"The Great Hall of Thráin would set a powerful message," Oin mused. "And the refuges are down there, too, so there will be a few chambers for use so that you won't be required to find comfort in a treasury," he glanced around the table, and noted the speculative looks on several of the company's faces as they obviously tried to find the difficulty in being comfortable _in a treasury_. "Comfort for the hobbit, at the very least," he amended.

Bifur opened his mouth, obviously intent on adding his thoughts to the use of those chambers, when Thorin clamped one calloused hand on his shoulder, hard.

"Don't," he said.

Bifur leered at him instead, clearly not nearly intimidated enough. Bofur moaned quietly in embarrassment at his cousin's antics and buried his face in his hands.

"Besides, I should think that given the absence of one, a latrine would seem as beautiful as the Arkenstone itself, and more heavily wished for." Oin finished practically, either not hearing, or simply ignoring the byplay. Thorin rolled his eyes, somehow dishearted to be discussing chamber pots in relation to his courting strategy.

"Alright," Nori took charge of the discussion once again. "I know we've got more and more refugees arriving from Ered Luin every day, but outsiders have no place in family business." Several nods assured him he had their agreement. "Bombur, you'll continue to get them settled and assigned tasks that will keep them out of our way. It wouldn't hurt if you mentioned the hobbit, and how much you admire him; don't lay it on too thick, but give them something positive to think about."

"Aye, praises sprinkled like seasoning to flavour the dish. All come to my kitchens at some point, to feed their bellies and to fill their minds; all the gossip comes to me eventually," Bombur grinned slyly, and patted his roundness where it rested against the table's edge.

"Exactly," Nori grinned. "As the only Cantor among us, Bifur should go down there to sing to the chambers, and find out if everything is still stable. When he gives the go-ahead, Bofur, Dori- you two head down and start any repairs that are needed. Clean out any rubbish, and prepare things the way Bifur tells you for the ritual. Oin – I don't imagine we've got a store of anointing oil laid by, so you had better start preparing some. It's going to take a barrel-full to do a chamber that size. I shall take care of acquisitions and trade from Laketown for anything we're missing – I'll take Dwalin with me. Balin and Gloin, you two head up the what there is of our council; you'll be needed to make sure everything continues running smoothly and no one pays us too much attention. Ori, you can continue your work with Master Baggins in the Record Hall and the library- maybe drop a word or two about our king in his pointed ear; see how he reacts."

Thorin flushed and glared at the auburn-haired thief, most certainly trying not to look too interested in the idea of murmuring anything in said pointed ear.

"What about us?" Kili threw his arm around his brother to include him in his protest at being left out.

"You two shall be with me," Thorin said grimly. "What time I do not spend in meditations and preparations shall be spent in your instruction."

"Instruction? For what?" Kili asked, warily.

"To rule, while I am confined."

Fili gulped, looking around the chamber a bit wildly.

This didn't sound fun, _at all_.

-..-

Deep within the mountain, a hobbit slept peacefully, and dreamt of comely things, completely unaware of how much his life was about to change.

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**Author's Note:**

I admit to being nervous when posting this, and I was overwhelmed with the positive response, here and elsewhere! Thank you all for being so tremendous :)


	3. 3 - And There Are Many Paths to Tread

_In any writing process, the unsung heroes are the betas. My heartfelt thanks to hazel-3017 and krystal lazuli for all their patient work and tremendous dedication. You guys are awesome!_

_And as always, thank you to Nepthysmoon, for being most incredible, in every way 3**  
**_

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**Forge of Origins**

Legacy of Our Fathers

**Chapter 3**

**And There Are Many Paths to Tread**

EVERY mountain had its own particular smell, made up in part of its composite deposits, and in part of the spirit of the people who dwelt there. The distinct spicy, earthy and mineral smell of being in the deep mountain chambers of his home was something Dori, like all dwarrows who had been driven from Erebor, remembered in his dreams during the protracted exile in Ered Luin.

Once, long ago, Dori had thought he might spend his days in the deep dark like this, delving for new and precious things and gently coaxing them to light. His great strength made mining an obvious choice when it became apparent he had no leaning towards any of the weapon-smithing trades. It was a bit of a surprise really, when he finally felt his calling and it was towards horology—a surprise, that is, until one took into account his love of precision and minutia, though Nori had a much cruder way of putting it, of course.

He was his brother, and he loved him, but sometimes, Dori despaired for Nori ever finding a shred of respectability.

Dori had been late in blooming, and heard no Call from any craft over another until well into his fortieth year. Most dwarrows tended to show talent by their second decade, third at the latest. To go four was of great concern, especially when there was some hope that if Dori showed especial skill his work may give financial relief to the struggling family. He had learned quickly to turn a deaf ear to the whispers, and to not see the pitying stares; he'd had lots of practice, of course. His mother's method of dealing with grief was unusual—scandalous, even, though not completely unheard of. Dori's father had been Íth's life-mate and their love had been true and fine, but Suthri died in an orc raid in the outerlands when Dori himself had been just a babe in swaddling. For a grieving Íth, Nori's father had been a means of forgetting the pain for a while he supposed, but he'd not stuck 'round long once he found his mistress was expecting. Ori's father had been just the same, and suddenly Dori found himself an older brother in charge of keeping an eye on his siblings while his mother worked the forges at all hours, day and night, to bring in what means she could. Not finding his craft-calling was no longer just an embarrassment, it was becoming a huge weight from under which Dori couldn't seem to escape.

Once Nori and Ori had been old enough, he had been lucky to find an apprenticeship with a merchant who'd specialised in imports of fine wines, exotic fabrics and the like from the human settlements; and for the first time in decades the fact that he was a late bloomer was completely irrelevant. When, a few years after he'd made senior apprentice at trade, he had finally had his Calling, it was no great motivation to start over at another craft. He had some security with his current position, and starting his apprenticeship over wouldn't give them more coin to spend. Many dwarrows didn't work in their heart-craft, after all. It was enough that sometimes in the evenings, Dori had a moment to cast precise little cogs and gears from metal scraps Nori occasionally brought to him, and even then he knew better than to ask from where. For two years he'd worked at it, finding a few hours by candlelight after he'd seen to his brothers, and convinced Íth to rest. He gathered scraps of wood and built an ornate housing, encouraging the artistic little Ori to paint scenes on it, until one day he actually had accumulated enough parts to make the large hall-clock run. They had presented it to their mother for her naming-day, having never been able to give her anything so grand before, though it was still an apprentice effort at best. Íth had smiled, pulling her boys close, telling them that together, they could accomplish whatever they chose.

She had died quietly in her sleep a week later, gone to rejoin Suthri in the hall of Mandos, to await the great re-forging.

Once they had been driven from Erebor, pride had made for thin supper for many families, and Dori's chosen trade served them far better than horology would ever have. He was able to keep his brothers dressed decently and fed better than most, and for a late bloomer, and son of a scandalous dwarrowdam, it was more than enough satisfaction. No one had the energy to whisper about the brother's 'Ri anymore, not in the daily struggle after the exile.

And now they were finally here. The dragon had been slain, the kingdom was theirs to reclaim with hard work and willing hearts, and now the only whispering that would be done would be about the King's Companions, Rescuers of Erebor, not squalid fatherless outcasts. The work in the Treasury and the refuge chambers was going much quicker than he had dared hope, though he knew his Majesty was chafing at every little delay. Bofur was a cheery companion, and Dori had come to respect throughout their journey that his original sense of humour and good cheer never interfered with whatever task he undertook, so he allowed himself to relax and enjoy the good company during what was proving to be largely tedious rubble-clearing and knee-popping scrubbing.

A low whistle distracted him from the heavy stone-wood chair he was attempting to repair, and he jabbed his finger with the sharp little awl when he startled. Cursing, and trying not to think of how dirty it probably was, he stuck the injured finger in his mouth, and turned to search for Bofur in the vast expanse of the main vault. Piles of priceless items still littered the floor, despite the whole company having spent considerable time down here, cataloguing and claiming parts of the hoard. At least, the floor was, for the most part, visible now, its polished rose marble gleaming in the flickering lantern light.

It took a moment for Dori's wandering eyes to finally locate his companion, hunched over as he was behind the dull gleam of what was once the throne of Thráin I. Smaug must have had his reasons, but the throne itself was surprisingly intact, back in the far corner of the room, looking absurdly like an afterthought; a forgotten relic of a bygone era.

Not even bothering to grumble, he marched over to where the other dwarf crouched, to peer peevishly over his shoulder. "What are you on about?" Dori demanded as best he could with his bleeding finger still jammed in his mouth. Somehow, he wasn't surprised that the whimsical dwarf seemed to have no trouble understanding him.

"Would ya look at this, now?" Bofur shifted his weight back on his heels, to give Dori room and light to see what had caught his attention.

It looked like nothing so much as an innocent rough linen pouch, grey-brown and almost invisible where it was tied against the stone. It had a familiar look to it, Dori thought, searching his memory—like the kind he'd seen in the great forges…used occasionally for the making of flash fires…

Dori slowly looked up the length of the carven pillar, one of a pair standing behind the throne; there were four such pairs around the room, supporting all the arched doorways leading into this chamber from the refuge chambers to the anti-room of the vault that held the massive main doorway. With a sinking feeling, he forced his gaze over to the second pillar, on his left. An identical pouch was tied to the base of it. Suddenly, Dori didn't find them so innocent looking at all. He wondered how many of the other supports in the room had similar loads waiting at their base.

Bofur had obviously come to a similar conclusion, because when he looked up, his appearance was the most serious it had ever been. The expression looked incredibly out of place on his mobile and expressive face. "Reckon King Thrór was planning on blowing them?" he asked, and his voice sounded as if it hurt just to say the words. "Sealing his-self down here with the gold when old Smaug came?" Everyone had heard the whispered stories of how his grandson, Thorin, had rescued the king, pulling him bodily from the Treasury just as the dragon claimed it. But this! If_ this_ is what he'd actually been stopped from doing…it would be the ultimate dishonour to an already disgraced figure.

_Yes_, Dori wanted to say, and the thought tasted like the dregs of badly turned ale on his tongue, _that's exactly what I think he would have done. While his people burned and suffered, he would have done everything to protect his gold—or die with it. _But Dori said none of this. He understood the shame that came with having something embarrassing in the family that was no fault of your own. He understood the whispers, and the deep need to prove yourself. He understood the anger for, as well as the paradoxical need to protect the one responsible, and yet still loving them fiercely. It was a strange feeling of kinship for a bastard's brother to feel for his king, to be sure.

What he actually said, a long moment later, was, "All I see is more rubbish to be cleared out." He made sure his voice was level, and without any emotion, just a calm recitation of fact. Dori looked down to the dwarf still crouching at the pillar's base before adding firmly, "There is absolutely nothing to report to Thorin. Am I clear?"

Bofur looked at him for a long moment, clearly uncomfortable as he chewed at his mustache. Dori kept his face placid, projecting nothing but calm surety. He'd had a lot of experience guiding a nervous Ori, after all. Finally, the miner nodded.

"Aye. Nothing but rubbish here," he agreed, slowly.

Methodically, and without looking at each other, they began carefully gathering up the last remnants of what must have been Thrór's final disgrace, and a last reminder Thorin, himself newly recovered of gold sickness, did not need.

IT WAS a week more before the end was in sight, though to be fair, it had been a lot of work for just the two of them; three, whenever Bifur was grounded enough to be in the same plane as the rest of dwarven-kind.

All dwarrows felt the earth around them—the minerals called to their bodies and fëa so that they were all aware of minute details that seemed to escape the other races, much to dwarven puzzlement. Cantors could take that awareness to a whole different level, and were to other dwarves in awareness, what dwarrows in general were to other races. Dori sometimes wondered what the world felt like from Bifur's skin. He could hear the rusty vibrations of his Song as it echoed and hung in the very rock of the larger chamber he and Bofur were working on, though Bifur had last sung here an hour before.

"Always gives me a bit o' the willies, how Bifur's voice can linger while my cousin does not," Bofur said, voicing what had been in Dori's thoughts all morning. "Still, I wouldn't want to send our little Burglar down here without Bifur's assurances—that's Mahal's own truth."

"We sent him down here before, when there was a live dragon at the bottom," Dori muttered, still a little embarrassed about the whole incident, and not quite sure how that part of the tale reflected on the lot of them.

"Aye, but you have to admit, he did better n' any o' us would have done. He's right clever and quick on his feet." Bofur's response was more pragmatic. He paused to lean on his shovel as he pushed his fur-lined cap back to scratch at his sweaty forehead. "Still, never know what more damage Smaug did when he came bursting out o' here in a wrath. Those pillars we shored up yesterday weren't anywhere near proper spec anymore, and that archway was darned near collapsed with the keystone cracked the way it was."

"Yes, yes," Dori conceded with as much grace as he could muster, which is to say, not very much while filthy and he suspected, with his braids in disarray. "I shall be far more inclined to celebration once these caverns are habitable." He gave a particularly violent shake to the thick rug he was attempting to clean, and ash billowed out in a cloud. Dori gave the thing a sour look.

Bofur didn't take any offense at Dori's fussing. "Ye should feel accomplished already. We've got the main cavern blocked up proper, Bifur says, to give the right acoustics for the ritual—that's a job that by rights should have taken more 'n just the three o' us, especially with you not being a miner and all. By tomorrow night, we should have the rest o' the junk cleared out o' here, too."

Dori gave a tired little grimace at the prospect of remaining this dirty for another whole day. "I suppose then Bifur can start burning Óin's incense and such—at least that will have the added benefit of clearing the air. You, master miner, stink," he looked down helplessly at his spotted and stained clothing. "And I suspect I do, too."

In a rare moment, which proved that not much got past his droopy-mustached and pig-tailed-braided head, Bofur said, "I'll take the good honest stink of a 'Ri brother any day, over some of those fancy fusspots as can't even spell courage, let alone do what we've done this last year." He winked at him solemnly, and before Dori could formulate a proper response, or indeed had any idea what to say to such a statement, Bofur had tipped his hat back in place and resumed shoveling the last of the detritus into his handcart.

And if he whistled jauntily while he did so, Dori may have given him an exasperated look, just for the form of the thing, but chose not to object. He may even have hummed along, in a pleasantly soft baritone. A little. And very, very quietly, of course.

Bofur was a surprisingly agreeable companion, indeed.

-..-

FAT BEESWAX candles burned smokelessly in polished iron brackets, freshening the air with their sweet scent. Glimpses of grandeur, of riches long forgotten and laying in wait, gleamed in the flickering light from beneath layers of neglect and disuse.

The royal apartments had been grand more than a hundred years ago; indeed, in his memory, they were opulent and rich beyond the dreams of men and elves. It was disheartening to sit here now and see the remains of once-rich tapestries hanging tattered on the walls and everything dull and covered in dust. Thorin had insisted that the company be housed in comfort and the main work of the kingdom be started before anything more than a basic scrub was done in here, for he could do no less for those who had given so much and so readily when he had asked, but the tattiness still rankled.

"Thorin, you're going to have to learn to focus if you're ever going to achieve the necessary calm for this," Óin was saying. He had _been_ saying it, or variations of it, for almost two hours now. The aged healer had even gone so far as to imply that Thorin's behaviour was only proof that Fili and Kili came by their restless energy completely naturally, whatever that was supposed to mean. He couldn't imagine he was in any way responsible for the shocking lack of decorum displayed by his sister-sons. His mind was wandering again; with great effort he pulled his attention back to the present moment.

"How is this even possible, Óin? I shouldn't be so bloody _open_ that I can barely function!" Thorin roared angrily, balling his fists against his thighs to keep from hitting something.

"Thorin, it's a bloody marvel you're still functioning at all, so don't split hairs over the how well of it," the healer retorted, clearly not intimidated one jot. "The fact of the matter is that it has been forming, completely one-sided. It will tear your mind apart if you don't take steps."

The king glared at him, mulishly. "_Why_ is the bond forming, is the question Óin."

"He had just saved your life. Is it really any wonder your barriers were lowered enough to allow this to happen? Now, you _need_ to meditate if you are going to be successful in pursuing your intended." Óin glowered at him, but beneath his habitually crusty demeanor there was genuine concern. "Like it or not, the process has already started, and if you do not achieve some kind of inner control to slow it down, you are running a very real risk of madness. If you had the sense to approach me after the Carrock, maybe—"

Bifur, with his usual lack of care for differences in rank, decided now was the time to chime in helpfully.

"Muck?" Óin screwed his ear trumpet in a little tighter and peered at Bifur from beneath craggy brows, probably hoping to lip read, for all the good the trumpet seemed to do him. "There was no muck at the Carrock, and I don't see how it is supposed to have helped if there _were_—"

The Cantor cut him off with a very vigorous series of hand gestures, and Thorin groaned.

When it came, the sharp knock on the door was so incredibly welcome that in his relief at the interruption, he found himself almost _shouting_ his permission to enter before he caught himself.

"Er, is this a bad time, your Majesty?" Nori asked, peering around the doorframe at the energetic discussion going on behind the dejected king.

Thorin sighed wearily, but shook his head and straightened his shoulders. "What is it?"

Nori sidled into the room, being sure to keep half an eye on the two dwarrows he considered to be an unpredictable element, especially when combined. "I just came back from Laketown with a load of calendula and comfrey for Óin, sire, and I thought you might want a bit of a report."

"Yes, proceed." Thorin tried to sit up and look attentive despite his difficulty in focusing on anything more immediate than the current whereabouts of his company's burglar. _It's getting worse_, he was forced to acknowledge, but he was still able to push it back, at least for now.

Nori's look was assessing, clearly seeing some of his monarch's turmoil, but he started his report obediently enough. "I can't believe you gave that lot a fourteenth share of the treasure," he started urbanely.

"It was at the behest of Master Baggins. It was his share, after all. It seemed churlish not to dispose of it according to his wishes," the king grumbled.

He got a raised eyebrow for his trouble. "Really?" It was almost obscene how much disbelief could be packed into that one word, especially on the tongue of their disreputable thief. "It's too bad you felt it necessary to be so accommodating in this case."

"Did you actually have something to report?" Thorin grumbled, in no mood for Nori's snide commentary.

The middle 'Ri brother unhurriedly finished polishing a small dirk against his jerkin and slotted it back into a hidden sheath, before answering. "Well, about what you would expect, I suppose, people being what they are and all," he drawled. "The Master, that pompous popinjay they had ruling that rabble, no sooner got to realising that being ruler when the town is razed and people are shitting in the streets for lack of even an outhouse is a lot harder than doing a runner with as much dwarven gold as you can carry, so he's decamped and headed for more agreeable climes, taking that rotter, Alfrid, with him."

Thorin let out his breath in a deliberate stream and stared hard at a faint spot of soot on the brick above the mantle. He knew his expression must clearly show his thoughts for a ruler who would abandon his people at such a time for any who would care to read them, and not even Bifur ventured to interrupt. "It is…unfortunate that this would happen," he finally said, because to say anything more would be to say too much when he was suddenly, irrationally, _angry_. _How dare that little man take the generosity and largess of the hobbit and trod it into the mud with such an act? _Vaguely, he registered a clatter, such as metal might make against stone.

"Your Majesty, you must try to relax," Óin was saying, and a large hand was holding his forearm; the healer's grip was still strong, despite his years. The king blinked and looked down at his hand, not sure why he was holding one of the candleholders from the table, until he saw its mate laying on the floor by the wall several yards away, clearly snapped in two. Carefully, he forced his fingers to relinquish their grip and placed the undamaged one back on the table.

"And what has become of the men of Laketown?"

"Bard leads them."

Bifur barked something highly derisive.

Nori shrugged. "True; he's just become a little more official about it, now."

"Uncle!" a familiar voice rang from the corridor, sounding a bit frantic. It was followed by Fili striding into the room without bothering to knock, or see who might be there.

"I've lost him! I lost…I mean…oh," the prince stuttered upon seeing a familiar auburn-haired thief in his uncle's quarters.

Thorin raised an eyebrow in censure, and Fili had the presence of mind to wipe the gobsmacked expression off his face, looking vaguely ashamed. "Can I assume your abrupt entrance has something to do with Nori?" he asked, feeling the beginnings of a headache throbbing deep in his skull.

His nephew and heir shifted nervously, well aware of what were likely his uncle's thoughts on his lack of control. "Well, uhm…," he stuttered, not really sure how he should answer in front of his supposed quarry, who seemed to be enjoying the proceedings entirely too much to be feeling intimidated.

"Let me guess," Nori drawled, leaning against one post of Thorin's four-poster bed. "Dwalin suggested you might keep an eye on me?"

Fili's expression was painfully struggling not to show his discomfort, obviously torn between telling the truth and possibly saying something he shouldn't. Thorin took pity on him. "It's all right, lad. What happened?" he asked, softly.

"Dwalin said we should keep an eye on Nori, that the crown should be advised on his whereabouts at all times."

"Dwalin said specifically that_ I_ had ordered this?"

The young dwarf's face flushed. "No—I guess not exactly, Uncle."

"You must be more careful, Fili. Listen to what is said to you, and take measure not only from what is said, but from what is not."

"Yes, Uncle," the prince bowed his head, furiously staring at his boots.

Thorin frowned. "Before long, I will not be able to look over your shoulder. Be thankful it was something relatively harmless this time."

Nori smirked. "Dwalin, though fearsome on a battle field, is not terribly skilled in the ways of mental or verbal combat, my prince," he told the crestfallen young man, clapping him on the shoulder lightly. "I'm sorry to say, his thrusts are rather predictable."

"And just what did you do during your time in Laketown to bait my guard-captain into this puerile counterstrike?" the king enquired suspiciously.

"Ah, it may have involved Grasper," Nori hedged.

Thorin raised an eyebrow, waiting.

"And a dung-pile," the thief added, trying to look innocent, whilst simultaneously judging the distance to the door.

-..-

"What would you be doing if you were back in the Shire right now, Master Baggins?"

Ori's voice floated up to him from somewhere down below. Bilbo clutched the ladder a bit more firmly as he leaned over as far as he could stretch, balancing on one hairy toe to grab the last three books on this shelf. "Right now?" he hummed, only paying half attention to the question as he made a second, slightly more dangerous grab for the books. "Well, it's just past the Yule festival now, so I'd likely be shoving relations out of my door in hopes of a little peace and quiet, and a chance to restock my pantry. _Aha!_ Got you, you elusive devils."

"Are those the last?" Ori fretted, holding the base of the ladder, and not liking Bilbo's acrobatics at all. Thorin would have _definite_ things to say if the hobbit were to fall.

"Yes, yes. I'm coming down now, don't worry." He'd never understand these dwarves, really. They were perfectly willing, back when they had thought him useless, to let him brave a dragon on his own, but now they fussed and fretted when he climbed a simple ladder. Yavanna only knew what passed for logic amongst his dwarven friends. However, Ori hadn't been able to deny that as the larger of the two, it made sense for him to hold the ladder steady, leaving the actual climbing to the more nimble hobbit, to which he had eventually conceded with a worried frown. "Here you go, I'm afraid I can't read the titles of these ones, but this last one is written in Westron, and appears to be an Herbal—shall we add it to the pile for Óin to look over, before we file it?" Bilbo handed Ori the books and began descending the ladder steps with exaggerated care at the dwarf's protective hovering.

"Hmm?" Ori murmured distracted, already leafing through the new books Bilbo had rescued and drifting towards his favoured work area with the hobbit trailing after him. Most of the damage done to the library was in the form of neglect during the dragon's stay. Mice had found their way into the stacks and chewed through an entire section on Elvin history, much to Thorin's enjoyment when Bilbo had told him of it; a cracked pipe one level up had caused water damage to the section of records spanning the late Second Age, and several shelves had collapsed entirely, burying their books under heavy piles of granite and timber. Some bindings were foxed from rubble and dust, but all in all, the Great Library of Erebor, largest repository of Dwarven records in all the seven kingdoms save that which was buried beneath Khazad-dûm, he had been assured, had weathered Smaug's occupancy surprisingly well.

Bilbo was only thankful that the dragon, like most animals, had showed the good sense to not foul his own lair, and had left his droppings and meal remnants out in the Desolation somewhere. He was a gentle-hobbit, after all, and he was afraid he'd have to put his foot down at dung-shovelling, no matter how fond he was of his companions.

"What have we found, Ori my lad?"

Startled, the dwarf looked up from his leafing with a squeak. "Oh, uhm—this one is on dwarven…customs, I guess you could say," he hedged, the tips of his round ears going faintly pink.

_The ridiculous secrecy of dwarves!_ "It's all right, I won't pry into things you can't tell me."

Ori looked visibly relieved, but still kept the open book pressed to his chest, arms crossed over it protectively_. I wonder if I should remind him I can't read Khuzdûl?_ Bilbo mused with fond exasperation, and turned back to the books they had managed to pull this morning, carefully sorting them into piles according to the amount of damage done to them. It was consuming work, and occasionally, he stopped to flip through one of the incomprehensible books just to look at the colourful woodcuts. His concentration was gone, though; he kept shifting restlessly from foot to foot, picking up and putting down several volumes without really examining them, his contented mood seemingly vanished. "Have there ever been any instances of outsiders learning dwarven secrets?" He didn't realise he'd planned to ask until the question slipped out. He told himself repeatedly not to be so over-sensitive, but no matter how much he kept brushing these incidents off, they still _hurt_.

Startled, the young dwarf didn't seem to know how to respond at first, but his expression quickly began to look pleased, as though Bilbo had handed him some kind of solution to something he'd been pondering. "We-ll, uhm… The most famous is the deep friendship that arose between the elf Celebrimbor of the kingdom of Hollin, and the great craftmaster Narvi during the Second Age. Their friendship was so great they actually crafted together, which resulted in Durin's Doors that guard the entrance to Khazad-dûm," he said, staring off over Bilbo's shoulder as he thought. "But there have been a handful of humans, too, mostly warriors who have fought with us." He blinked, and looked back to the hobbit with a smile. It was a wistful, hopeful smile, and Bilbo didn't have the heart to dash his hope, even if he privately thought it would be a long day of no Elevenses in the Shire before Thorin, traditionalist that he was, would consider teaching a hobbit sacred dwarven secrets.

"Well, then I suppose there is hope yet, isn't there?" he said instead, and tried very hard to banish the sudden image of sitting before a roaring fire, while listening to the deep voice of the king patiently going over basic grammar again and again for Bilbo's edification. The image was entirely too alluring for his own comfort, and he bit the inside of his cheek, hard, to distract himself from his own nonsense. "After all, I still have Sting and a few instructions from Dwalin, so all hope of a warrior's inclusion is not yet passed." He gave Ori a rueful little grimace.

"Oh, no, Master Baggins! I think you have already done so much for us, I'm sure his Majesty would agree that you are worthy of inclusion as _Khazâd Bâhâl_—dwarf-friend. He, he values you very highly, you know," he added shyly, peering anxiously at Bilbo as if willing him to believe, though he was still blushing.

"I thank you for the thought, Ori, but I truly don't see that happening anytime soon, so for now, you won't have Khuzdûl lessons for soft hobbits to add to your already overwhelming workload."

"I don't imagine it would be me giving the lessons," Ori said, apologetically. "I assume his Majesty would insist on doing that himself."

And _that_ really didn't do much for Bilbo's composure, as it brought back more images of fire-lit evenings and deep, raspy voices that made him unaccountably agitated and nervous. "Other kingdoms!" he exclaimed desperately, probably too loud for a dwarf who was actually no more than two feet away, but not caring in the slightest if he did deafen him at the moment. "You mentioned this being the largest library of the seven kingdoms. I don't recall Thorin ever mentioning having more than the one, unless you are also counting his hall in the Blue Mountains?"

"Not Thorin's kingdoms!" the scribe giggled helplessly. "There are seven kingdoms, each belonging to a different family. There were once three, here in Eriador, but now only the kingdom of Durin's folk remains. Four more lie far to the South and East of here."

"What happened to the other two kingdoms?" Bilbo asked, intrigued.

Ori paused in his sorting, gazing somewhere into the distance, as he was wont to do whenever he was searching the file-cabinet in his head for the precise little card with the information he wanted stored on it. One could almost see him patiently sorting through them all as he gathered a very detailed list of facts to present. After a moment, he blinked and turned his eyes back to the hobbit. "_Gabilgathol _and _Tumunzahar_; orBelegostand Nogrod in Westron, were held by the Broadbeam and the Firebeard families," he said slowly. "Their kingdoms were destroyed during the War of Wrath, at the end of the First Age."

Bilbo had a feeling that there was probably more he wasn't being given, but honestly wasn't going to be bothered chasing it down. "What happened to them?"

"What was left of the two clans fled east and settled with Durin's folk in Khazad-dûm; the _Sigin-tarâg, _orLongbeards are actually much more mixed than any other dwarven kingdom. We've always felt it made us stronger."

"Are there any of the other families settled here as well? The ones from the South and East, I mean?"

Glancing down to the book he still held securely to his chest, as if just remembering it was there, Ori seemed hesitant for a moment. "Durin eventually took his life-mate from the Blacklock family," he admitted finally. "And we have always welcomed dwarves from the other families when they come to us."

The hobbit paused his careful examination of the volume in his hands, and looked over at the young dwarf thoughtfully. "_Took_ his wife from the Blacklock family? That's an odd way of putting it," he commented mildly.

Ori's eyes widened fractionally. "Did I say that? You're right, that's—"

"Ori!" A deep voice called from across the vaulted room, and Thorin Oakenshield strode over the dusty stone floor to where the hobbit and his scribe were seated amid towering piles of tomes. "Ah, Master Baggins. I thought I might find you here."

"You were looking for me?" Bilbo looked up at the towering figure above him, in obvious confusion. "I haven't forgotten some meeting, or other, er, have I?"

"And do I now have to set a formal appointment to see my Burglar?" Thorin questioned lightly. The dwarven king actually appeared to be smiling down at him, but Bilbo was sure it was just the uncertain lighting—and if the library was flooded in natural light due to shafts cut into the ceiling, then he was certain no one would be rude enough to point that out. "It seems to me there was a time not long past where I commanded you from my presence, and yet you would not go."

"That is because you were refusing to stay in your bed as Óin ordered you to," Bilbo sniffed, clearly not impressed. "Yavanna save me from the stubbornness of dwarves! It's a wonder you lot managed to heal at all, the way you and your nephews behaved."

"Then we are all fortunate to have had a bossy Shireling to look out for us."

"You only began saying that once you realised that if you looked pathetic enough I would help you with your paperwork," Bilbo harrumphed.

Thorin's look of contrition was ruined by a rather arrogant smirk. "That is what government _is_, Master Baggins; people I find who are better than I at the tedious jobs. Are you sure I cannot convince you to serve in my Counsel?"

"You don't have enough good wine or fine food to temp me into such a position," the hobbit dismissed him with an airy wave of his hand and rather deliberately turned back to his pile of books. The teasingly speculative look on Thorin's face was absolutely _not _causing his ears to flush. "Now, if you'll excuse me, _some _of us are actually trying to get some work done."

Ori just sat there awkwardly, watching the by-play with the air of someone watching a fisticuffs match, and unsure who might be winning. "Excuse me, but, I'll just carry on here, shall I?"

"Ah, yes, Master Scribe—I just wanted to steal our resident hobbit from you for a few moments." At Bilbo's firm look, Thorin remembered to smile reassuringly at the shyest member of his company. Ori bobbed his head and hurried off to his binding station, a good fifteen feet from where his king was now stealing his vacated chair.

Bilbo watched him settle himself with amusement. "Does Balin know you're skiving off?"

Thorin gave him an affronted look, to which the hobbit merely raised a brow. "I'm attending to affairs of state," he declared, daring him to disagree.

"In the library?" Bilbo asked, looking around the overflowing tables and benches, dust-strewn floors and absolute lack of state officials, with amusement.

"Yes. You are clearly an important asset to our kingdom, and I am here to remind you that you need to take a break every now and again." Though Thorin's face was less expressive than say, Bofur's, Bilbo still found that his eyes gave him away every time. Right now, they were glittering faintly with amusement and relaxation, though his actual expression remained serious.

"I took a break for lunch not long ago, thank you very much," he shot back, looking pointedly back down to his work.

He heard the dwarf king sigh and shift in his chair, but he didn't let himself look up and spoil the effect. Lightly, he ran his fingertips over the foxed edges of the large green tome before him, feeling for warping in the binding board. A shuffling of booted feet, slightly louder, still failed to make the hobbit look up, and he could almost feel Thorin's brow furrowing in frustration as he smirked to himself.

"Fine!" Thorin finally grumbled, losing patience. "I am here to request that you join me this evening."

Bilbo looked up, curiously.

"Bifur tells me they have finished repairs to the Treasury. I would like you to join me in inspecting the work…"

* * *

**Author's Note:**

I am so sorry this took me so long to get this chapter up!

When I first undertook this story, I had no idea that _this_ would be my major sticking point. The plot - which was rough and somewhat nebulous in my head, suddenly needed to be detailed, right-the-heck now if I was going to be able to write this chapter at all, something I hadn't planned on needing fully formed for another two chapters. Thus began a month of evenings; after work and after the dinner was cleaned up for another night, curling up with a glass of wine, my laptop, far to many scribbled notes on some truly _dodgy_ paper (some of which looked suspiciously like napkins, or in some cases, even wrappers :p) and every Tolkien text I owned or could index on-line. The result? Well, hopefully you have all felt the wait was worth the result 3

A Few Random Notes:

1) I love Dori. I don't know why, precisely, but I got an indecent amount of enjoyment from trying to figure out just what made him _him._

2) Bifur is also the dwarf of my heart. There is just something so heartbreakingly fun about him. I tried to sit down and write the whole Thorin/Bifur/Oin/Fili scene from his point of view, but I just couldn't do it and I may have cried a little in frustration at my complete inability to do so.

The resulting scene is probably more readable than it would have been had I succeeded, but I make it a goal to find a way to write for him before this is over, even if it's only a few paragraphs

3) Hopefully, my ideas of Dwarven culture will continue to meet with everyone's enjoyment :)

Thank you again to everyone for reading, reviewing and/or leaving kudos! I just got back from the dentist and my face is frozen from neck to eyeballs - and the idea that you guys are out there, enjoying all my hard work is making me feel amazing, despite occasionally chewing my tongue .

You guys have super powers, you really do :)


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